


God Can't Save You Now

by imperator_titus (orphan_account)



Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Christ Resurrected, Drug Use, F/M, On-Screen Murder, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 12:03:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17304263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/imperator_titus
Summary: Michael Langdon makes one last stop before he finishes his destiny. There's been word that Christ has come back to Earth and he just has to rub it in their face that he's won.





	God Can't Save You Now

**Author's Note:**

> My modus operandi for fanfiction has been to write about things I don't really know what I'm talking about. A friend brought my attention to this season of AHS (I've only watched up through season 4) and to cheer her up I've done some stuff for her!  
> Please enjoy even though I know I am a terrible terrible writer.  
> PS- There's no real moral to this story, just because there is a theme of religion, sin, and spirituality does not mean I got on a soapbox.  
> If you've read my other stuff, this is intended to be the Aneirin you know, I've just given her a much nicer last name.

They had warned him: _God won’t let this be easy. Nothing about this will be easy. Great forces will work against you._

Michael Langdon stood over one of those great forces and grinned his handsome wicked grin.

He had felt its presence as he walked the Earth, sowing the seeds for the end of the world. It was a light brighter than the sun, warm and inviting, even to him. It threatened to push back the darkness tainting his soul and at times he had wanted to give in so he could be free of his burden. Michael had fought the urge to surrender and all of his pain and struggles proved fruitful, for he felt that brilliant light grow smaller and weaker, receding into some desolate, decrepit, forgotten part of a city that might as well have been named New Sodom. The son of Lucifer reached out and followed the faint afterglow God’s child left as it too walked the Earth, seeking to find something worth redeeming and saving in its pathetic population.

He had been expecting a dark-skinned young man, or maybe Christ would have decided it easier to approach his people as that whitewashed mockery of his old self. What he had gotten was a short young woman of European descent, hair a dark blonde made even darker from oil and dirt.

Michael found her at the heart of the city, sitting in the ruins of a burnt-out church. With some sense of irony, she had decided to lean against the support of the once splendid crucifix, its martyr long since crumbled to ash. His walk down the aisle between charred pews and debris was deliberate, his hands clasped behind his back and his head held high. Piercing blue eyes scanned their meeting place, finding nothing of note except how the air still smelled like cleansing fire and despair. Standing just a few paces away, he could faintly make out the glow of a halo crowning the vagrant’s head.

“They had made you out to be some bogeyman, something to be feared,” he verbally smirked. Michael watched as Christ tightened her grip around the neck of a sacramental wine bottle, its label black, and took a swallow from it without acknowledging him. His face twitched with agitation. “I have won.”

“Not all stories have happy endings.” The words were practically a whisper, difficult for even him to hear. There was hollow sadness, a touch of disappointment, and just a hint of tired anger.

“It appears to have quite the happy ending for me,” Michael preened. The only sign that his barb meant anything to her was the lighting of a crumpled cigarette between her chapped wine-stained lips. A quick look around showed empty bottles and spent filters. There was a loaf of bread nearby which appeared to have been pecked at by suspicious birds, but most likely by one certain part of the Trinity. “You have nothing to say to me?”

Christ brought her current bottle to her mouth once again, some of the ruby-red liquid escaping to form a rivulet down her chin and neck, staining her ill-fitting hole-ridden clothing. “The Catholics are fucking idiots. This isn’t what my blood tastes like at all! I’ve tasted my own blood, it’s delicious. This? _This_ tastes like _shit!_ ”

Michael tilted his head and, in a moment of confusion, his lips parted slightly as his mind tried to find the proper response. He didn’t find one in time before she continued her rant. She took up the stale bread, crumbled it in her hands, and growled, “They don’t think my body would have some flavor? This isn’t even worth second-pressed oil!”

“You-“

“Use some _herbs_ for Father’s sake!”

Michael stared as what started as an argument about the quality of communion wine turned into sobs. Christ put her face in her hands, pushing the heels of her palms into her eyes as tears spilled from them. He regained his smug composure. “That sounds a bit like hubris to me.”

“I _died_ for these people,” she snarled, making an amusingly pathetic attempt to get to her feet, using the crucifix as a handhold.

“You’re right, you should be rewarded. Praised.” Michael couldn’t help himself from trying to pluck at the apparent darkness brewing in such a brilliant soul. It was too tantalizing a challenge and if he succeeded it would be the most beautiful feather in his proverbial cap.

“It’s not about the fucking _bread!_ ” Christ stumbled but a firm grip on the wooden pillar proved to keep her upright. In a quieter voice, she repeated, “It’s not about the bread.”

“I am curious. What _is_ it about?” Michael slowly circled the drunken figure, his delicate fingers flickering rhythmically to sweep away the debris in his path.

“People used to- used to act _right._ Before they even knew they were _people._ ” He could hear how much effort it took for his counterpart to find the words and get them out through haze and tears. “Then we had to give them _rules_ , tell them if even they didn’t get punished _here_ we’d punish them _there._ ”

“That hasn’t seemed to work. You have obviously failed.” She barked a laugh and he watched her put even more weight on the crucifix. Somewhere in the ceiling wood shifted, ash and blackened splinters falling down like damned snow.

“People were okay, for a while. Then they… they got off the path again. Our Father sent me to renew the rules, change them, adapt them…”

“He sent you knowing you would be killed,” Michael prodded, passing close enough in his spiral on the dais that he dared to brush his leather-gloved fingers against her greasy stained cheek. Finding there no pain as he’d come to expect in such contact, he came to a stop and tilted her head to get a better look at the creature he feared would ruin his life’s purpose. “Your father sacrificed you, and look how you have been repaid.”

“Times change,” she said unconvincingly, voice quiet and hollow. Her blue eyes were a kaleidoscope of pale greens and faint browns, glancing away from him in shame. “It was easier then. So few people… isolated… they needed each other. It’s easier to be kind to your neighbor when you need them. Need them directly.”

“You’re just making excuses, my dear,” he purred. Michael caught the attention of her wandering eyes and froze them in place with the ice of his own. “You-“

“Humans have such capacity for cruelty.” The words startled him into silence, his quip dying on his tongue. “I wasn’t strong enough.”

“It’s delicious, seeing you accept your failure.” Michael rubbed at a red stain on her cheek, the leather of his glove pulling the soft skin in small circles. “Why don’t we celebrate the end of the world together? Hmm? I would be honored to be in such _divine_ company.”

As she had accepted her defeat, God’s child submitted to his request with a simple nod and sniffle. She stumbled in her attempt to follow him and he reveled in watching her fall to her knees as if she was kneeling to him in supplication. The moon was now the brightest thing in the sky, competing with the lights of the city. The glow of her halo cast his shadow before him, long and dark between the crumbling pews.

The streets were eerily quiet, devoid of life, but it could be felt thrumming all around them like a buzzing hive. The energy of the universe was anxious, tense as if it were a violin string ready to snap. Michael heard the flick of a lighter coming to life and eventually, a sickly smell wafted past his nose. “Isn’t that a sin?”

“Guess I’ll be joining you for more than dinner,” she replied after letting a billow of smoke out between her lips.

“I expected the Son of God to be more… righteous.” The leather of his gloves squeaked as his fingers writhed against each other.

“I’m the new model. New model, new rules.” Her too-big shoes tripped her on uneven concrete but it only proved to interrupt her thoughts. “What do you care?”

“No wonder you failed to save this miserable species.”

“The attempts to ignore the reality of my situation came after the beginning of the end,” she said, taking moments to gather her thoughts in between some words. 

“I can’t say you put up a valiant fight,” his voice was icy, almost annoyed. She didn’t respond. “Can’t even defend yourself?”

“Holy Ghost, if the world wasn’t ending soon I would make being smug a sin.” The cloying clouds from her mouth ended before they reached his residence, but of course, it mixed with the other scents entrenched in her coat. The moth-eaten wool was home to the smell of human sweat, dirt, ash, smoke of all sorts, blood, wine, and faint damp from the recent cold rain. Being in a confined space with her was nearly unbearable, but Michael wasn’t about to let her know that; he needed a total victory.

Behind the closed door of a bathroom, he knew she would be stripping off the offending articles of what once could have been considered clothing. Somehow the thought disturbed him, to think of his adversary being so incredibly and decidedly human. It was almost a cosmic insult. The savior of humanity should have been an angel, something too good and perfect to get drunk out of self-hatred. Something that didn’t get stoned and then take a shower because its body had the audacity to _sweat._

Michael took the opportunity to change into something nicer than what he had worn to meet his enemy in. He had expected there to be a struggle, some form of a fight, but everything had simply fallen into place. Total victory demanded a more dramatic visage.

“Vanity is definitely one of your sins,” Christ drawled behind him. He turned on his heel and it took quite a bit of self-control to not react to her appearance. Modesty had been lost, either with the ‘new rules’ or with the defeat of goodness, but either way she stood in the middle of his bedroom with naked skin scrubbed an almost painful-looking pink and hair dark with water. In her hand was one of his combs. “Do you mind?”

His eyes were distracted by the comb, or rather by the discolored and shiny mark on her wrist where the comb ended. A matching scar could be seen on both the inside and outside of her other wrist and his gaze landed on the round scars on her feet.

“Hey.” Michael renewed intense eye contact.

“Go right ahead,” he gladly said, playing the humble host. The attempt to not be distracted by her failed. As she lifted her arms to comb the back of her head, which took a great deal of effort considering how tangled it was, her breasts lifted to reveal a scar on her right side between two ribs.

“Don’t be a Doubting Thomas.” It was surely a joke, but there was no humor in her voice. “Are you surprised?”

“Not at all.” To look away from her would be a defeat, she would take it to mean he was ashamed to look upon her naked form.

“They still hurt sometimes. Sometimes I remember how it felt to not be able to breathe.” She did him a favor by turning around and he took the opportunity to retrieve the clothing he had found and set aside for her. “Even by Father’s side, I would be cast back into that moment. I knew it would happen, but the pain of it haunted me. Being betrayed. Falling under the weight of the cross. Hanging under the sun. The laments.”

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

“No, Michael, you’re not.” Her arms dropped to her sides as she removed the bundle of loose hairs from the comb. “I want you to know that, just because you have eternal power, it doesn’t mean you’ll be free.”

“Who said I wanted to be free?” She caught his attention again and clicked her tongue, shaking her head in disappointment. He heard her walk back into the bathroom where she took it upon herself to use his toothbrush and took time investigating every bottle she could get her hands on. When she returned for the clothes, he could smell his shampoo in her hair, the soap he washed with, and lotion. It was a far cry from the state she started in. “Indulging, I see.”

“You do know that the last time I was on Earth, it was the first century?”

“I find the Bible rather dull.” He was slightly surprised to hear her snort a laugh in response.

“Me too.” Dressed as he wanted her to be, the holy vessel went back to her old clothes to retrieve what few cigarettes she had left and her lighter. Michael left her to her own devices long enough to find something worth drinking and he had to lift her off the ground with one hand under her armpit, finding her rather light.

“They warned me you wouldn’t make things easy.” He held onto her arm long enough for her to find her balance, or at least what little was left of it.

“I’m a lot of things, my lost lamb, but I am not” _hiccup_ “easy.”

“I am no _lost lamb,_ ” he growled, an attempt to injure her with the fluid flick of his hand rebuffed by some invisible force.

“That’s what they all say.”

“And who exactly are _they?_ ” Christ grew silent, which he was thankful for as her inane conversations were tiring his nerves. Michael practically had to physically drag her back into the outside world. It had begun to snow, the ice crystals crunching under their shoes. This part of the city had more life to it, but it was still so strange to see so few people in the streets. The calm before the storm.

He let her order a strong drink, this was a celebration after all. From across the table, he smiled at her, smug and satisfied. When their glasses were placed before them he delicately picked his up, holding it aloft in anticipation of his first words to her since his home. “To the end.”

She raised her glass to acknowledge his toast and let the amber liquid wash over her tongue. “Congratulations.”

The concessional praise slithered into his ears and made a warm burrow in his head. “Tell me. What happens to you now?”

She had her hands spread out on the edge of the table, tapping them in a pattern known only to her. Her voice sounded as if she was reading aloud, the words not her own, “Your greatest fear is abandonment.”

Michael’s golden brows drew in and anger sparked in his eyes. “What-”

“I don’t know what happens to me,” she interrupted, brought back from whatever spell she was under. “Father didn’t tell me.”

“I was under the impression that-”

“We’re not so different.” This time Michael chose to be silent, waiting for these asides to run their course. There was some muttering that didn’t make sense, but it ended with a tone of realization. “Father abandoned me. He wanted me to fail.”

“The Almighty God sent his child down a second time, just for you to fail your mission?” He swirled his drink, unable to decide if this conversation was going to be more enlightening than tedious.

“He did it before. He let them kill me.” She took the most subtle of changes in his features as a sign to continue speaking, though she had apparently thought better of that line of thought. “Father just… asked me what I believed to be the best vessel to return as. He didn’t let me finish, just snapped his fingers and here I was. Dropped me in the garbage behind a church.”

“What loving parents we have.” New drinks had been placed before them and he once again raised his glass.

“To attempted filicide,” she laughed as she rang her glass against his.

When their food arrived, Michael was too distracted with cursing himself over his use of silverware to notice the brewing of an emotional storm on the opposite side of the table. Looking up he saw tears falling from her face, watering her salad as she bent over it with her head propped up on the heels of both palms, elbows on the table. In his smooth voice, he smugly implored, “I thought we were having fun.”

“I might as well not exist. I wasn’t born, I don’t even really have a name.” Her words sounded like that of a paranoid, rushed and suspicious. She pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of a pocket, its edges blackened. It had been part of some ecclesiastical paperwork, the purpose of which wasn’t discernible from so little information, but in the middle was ‘NAME: ANEIRIN PR’ in the print of a typewriter; it had been old, but how old Michael couldn’t tell. “Couldn’t really go around calling myself Jesus Christ again, now could I? People would think I’m insane.”

“Soon there will be few left to find you insane. Besides, many of them will have met me, know what I am; it would be no great leap of faith to accept you as a forlorn deity.” Michael began to playfully call her ‘Aneirin of St. Augustine’s Garbage’ for the rest of their dinner while she silently ate and he proudly went into detail about his plans for the world. At first, her lack of input made him feel superior, imagining the inner machinations of her mind occupied with her failure. However, he realized that she was not even remotely present for his preening. “Tell me, what will you miss most about humanity, if it means so much to you?”

“Music.” Michael’s face twitched in confusion. “Harps and hymns get rather boring.”

“I would imagine.”

“They have their place, of course. But Father said that it was the _only_ proper form of music.” He caught the words ‘vain ass’ mumbled under her breath. “I’ll miss real food. Apparently, you don’t need food when you don’t have a physical body. I’ll miss… _fun_. Heaven is… the _dullest_ place in existence.”

“You’re in luck, then. Things are about to become _very_ interesting.” It gladdened him to see her moment of happiness so swiftly dashed by the sobering reality of her failure. The smile on his face was as charming as it was malicious. “Shall we go?”

Michael helped Aneirin of St. Augustine’s Garbage into her coat, a white wool affair that he’d chosen to match her soul’s brilliant purity, and he nearly adjusted her halo to be cute, but it sparked at him like a defensive hound.

The world outside was completely silent and covered in pure white snow, not a single footprint or tire track in sight. It nagged at him, but not for long. This would be the way things were in not too long, he would enjoy the preview of what was to come. He smirked, stopped, turned on his heel, and began, “you know-”

He did not finish, for his companion was kneeling in the snowy avenue, face held in hands to mask her sobs. The crunch of ice under his boots announced his approach and his lips curled in satisfaction to see God’s child at his feet, looking up at him with tears freezing on her cheeks. “Kill me, Michael.”

Unconsciously, the Antichrist took a step away from her and Aneirin responded by taking his wrists into her hands with one quick movement. “It would please me more to make you watch the end.”

“Think of how proud your father would be, to know his son made Christ beg for her death and killed her with his own two hands.” Her gaze was inescapable, as was her grip. Michael tried to free himself, tried to find more words to explain his reason for refusing her the mercy of death, but panic overcame him. The bite of her halo grew more intense as she brought his hands to it and the unbearable pain was only in his body for an instant when his fingers wrapped around the ring of pure light.

The sun and air were hot on Michael’s face, a slight breeze shifting his golden curls like the leaves of a tree. Before his eyes adjusted, he could hear the sound of people crying, two women’s sobs chief among them. His vision returned from the blinding white that was the last moment he remembered and he found himself standing only a few paces away from a crucifix. At first, he thought that it was just some statue, but then the figure hanging from the crossbeam moved.

It was neither the true Jesus of Nazareth nor the pale European Christ, but the body who had named itself Aneirin. Confused, Michael turned towards the sound of weeping, finding two women comforting each other, presumably Mary the Mother and Mary Magdalene. Behind them was scattered others who had come to be in the presence of their assumed savior in his last moments, though no one seemed to notice that it was the wrong soon-to-be corpse. Stone and sand crunched under his sandals as Michael approached the center cross.

He was so close he could hear her tortured breathing, watched with morbid curiosity as her weak muscles lifted her emaciated body up just enough to allow her lungs some air. Trails like roots of dried old blood snaked down her bent arms from the nails in her wrists and down the wood behind her crossed feet. Tired dark-blue eyes found his bright ones and fixed him to the spot. “Please,” she whispered, “let them suffer no longer.”

Michael was suddenly aware of the spear shaft in his hand, the wood’s grain dry against his palm. He turned his attention to the weeping women and other lambs moaning their despair; his first thought was that to end their suffering was to end their lives. After all, life was just one long moment of suffering, from a child’s first breath to their last. That was not what Aneirin wanted, no, he thought, the end of her means the end of human suffering. He looked up at the pitiful figure and asked in a sudden tumble of words, “What did you mean when you said He let you die?”

In a voice clear as a cloudless sky, Michael heard in his head, “I questioned him.”

With his own two hands, he lifted the spear. His mind’s eye flickered with the memory of her combing her hair and he placed the tip of his weapon where that scar had run between two ribs. It took little effort for the sharp metal to break her skin, slice through muscle, and slide between bone to pierce first her pericardium and then the heart that it protected. Water and blood mixed as it ran down the wood shaft and covered his clenched hands. As he stared to witness life leave her, the wine-like liquid turned golden and light began to spill out from her wounds like the sun coming out from between storm clouds.

Michael sat up with a gasp, his whole body reeling as if it had been ripped out from nothingness. His normally warm skin was chilled to the bone, making it numb and his muscles stiff. Gracelessly he managed to get to his feet, looking at his unmarred hands in surprise; he was sure that such a shock would have caused him some harm. A few yards away he spotted the indent in the snow that had to be his counterpart. He knelt beside her body, brushing away the white powder covering her face. Gently he wiped the gold liquid trickling from her nose and inspected it on his black gloves, smearing it around on his fingers. When he lowered his hand, he found Aneirin staring at him.

“You can still win this, Michael, but not the way you thought you would,” she said in a serious tone. Snow fell softly as she sat up and got to her feet. Her coat glittered as streetlights came on, twinkling as the fabric moved while she fixed the golden glow above the crown of her head.

“Explain yourself,” he insisted. She started walking away as if she had either not heard him or had chosen to ignore him. Michael stood at his full height and clenched his gloved hands into fists. “You will answer me!” 

She stopped and turned her head to the sky. Michael looked up as well and found that the snow that had been falling was now drifting back up, becoming dark like ash as it joined with the grey clouds above. He had almost expected for the clouds to part, revealing the sky to be a mirror where some other Michael was looking down at him. Her calm voice broke him from his contemplation, “What did you see?” 

“Your death,” he replied. 

“Do you know what I saw?” Michael didn’t know how to answer. “I saw you, standing below me, watching my mother and friends weep for me. You looked so scared, so sad, so _confused._ I asked you to end all of that suffering, with just one death. You could have left me there, for the pain to continue, but you drove that spear into my heart. And what came after…” she turned her head just enough for him to see her cheek over the coat’s high collar, “... was nothing. I came home… to nothing.” 

The Shepherd spun the rest of the way to face him and Michael took a cautious step back. “Heaven is empty. No angels, no souls. God has abandoned his creation. All that is left is on this Earth…” A motion of her hands sent the upward-drifting snow into swirls. 

“And Hell,” Michael finished. 

Aneirin smiled and extended a hand to him. “I am not your enemy, dear Michael. I was once crowned the savior of mankind… I want to show you what I intend to be now. Come with me.”

Michael gingerly approached and took her hand, letting her lead him to the great Catholic Cathedral that loomed at the end of the avenue. All around them the world was still, save for them and the reversed snowfall. The imposing doors of the cathedral swung open before them without any explanation as to what moved it. She dropped his hand and strode down the center aisle towards the center crossing. Her voice filled the whole space as if the building itself was speaking. “I’m sure you have all sorts of ideas about how to enter Hell, don’t you, Michael?”

“I have the feeling you’re about to show me how to properly do it.” A quick flick of her hand disintegrated the altar on its dais, wood splinters softly pattering as they fell on the marble floor. “Not many people can say they saw Christ desecrate a house of God.”

“I will do with it as I wish,” she replied as fingers like the blade of a sword tore the banners hanging from the ceilings. “It is mine now, after all.”

Graceful sweeps of Michael’s hands charred pews and smashed statuary. He took her eventual stillness as a sign that they had done enough. The light pouring in through the smashed stained glass windows was red as blood, filling the cathedral with ominous deep shadows. On her way back to the atrium, she snaked her arm under his elbow and rested her left hand on his bicep. “I’ve always wanted to visit Hell. Now no one can tell me no.”

Beyond the cathedral doors was something out of a demented man’s dreams, the classic lakes of fire twisted and deformed in such ways they hurt the mind that attempted to make sense of it all. Like two magnificent ships they strode down the red-earth road raised above the flowing magma. In the eddies and currents, Michael saw the faces of tormented souls, but his companion did not stop to weep for them. Their goal was a dark edifice, a cathedral in its own demonic right; its spires were made of obsidian spikes, the walls black marble, and decorating it were the rotting bodies of sinners who would never be free of their pain, their moans barely audible above the roar of Hell itself.

As if it was his own home that he was inviting her to, Michael moved the twin doors with a sweep of his free hand and together they entered the House of Lucifer. Demons lingered in the shadows, eyeing the newcomers, and the air vibrated with their anxious energy. The bright ring of gold was enough to keep those of lesser power at bay, but Michael could tell that those who populated the throne room would not be so easily intimidated. Their visages and broken horns of gold proved them to be fallen angels, Lucifer’s inner circle, and they collectively came to their feet at the sight of their guests.

“Please,” Aneirin cooed at Michael’s side, giving his arm a reassuring pat before releasing him, “don’t stand on ceremony for little old me.”

While Michael had a habit of keeping his hands behind his back, his counterpart tended to keep her hands out in the open before her, like a fencer poised to both defend and strike. The figure on the raised throne stood and Aneirin bowed low, almost mockingly. “What are you doing here, Lamb?”

“Why, what else is the Lamb of God known for? To forgive you, my sweet angels.”

Her words, kind and genuine as they were, raised the ire of almost everyone present; save for Michael, who stood back and watched the scene unfold as if he wasn’t there at all. “Why would we want your forgiveness?”

“It is a trick!”

“They’ve come to destroy us!”

“After all we’ve done for him,” one of the fallen angels closest to them spat, a clawed hand stabbing the air at Michael, “he brings this _child_ into our home.”

“I had little choice in the matter, I am embarrassed to say,” Michael replied. Without knowing the purpose of this meeting, he was determined to stand in the middle ground, leaving little reason for either side to hold ill will when the brewing storm passed.

“I assure you, this is no trick. I’ve come to return you all to your former glory. No more hiding in the dark like feral animals,” Aneirin spoke as she walked the perimeter of the circular pool of molten rock in the center of the room. “No more whispering into the ears of mankind, waiting for your rise to power.”

“We _are_ the world power now, little _girl._ Your _failure_ , your precious _humanity_ ’s inability to keep the faith, and the work of the man you brought with you have all guaranteed that the end shall come and _we_ shall conquer the earth,” roared the figure who had been claiming the throne. As the Child of God came to stand in front of the dais, the fallen angel deliberately came down the steps.

One of the other angels moved to intercept, a knight coming to defend his king. “What do you plan on doing, Lamb, to return our glory?”

Aneirin did not take her eyes from the King of Hell, but simply touched her halo. “I will give you back your true crowns.”

“Halos? They might as well be _collars!_ ” The angel moved towards her, Michael’s face flinched as he expected this to be the end, but one of his prickly horns was in her grasp in the blink of an eye. The thing attached to it cried out in pain as he was thrown into a stone table with a surprisingly sick thud.

“Your horns don’t save you, why not replace them with something better?” The Lamb licked her golden wounds clean, blue eyes watching the King of Hell the entire time.

“Not even the Father can save you from the entire Army of Hell. We will not bend to _you!_ ” Satan raised his hand to strike, but instead, his own magnificent horns were grasped. He was lifted and then thrown to the ground, where the woman in white held his face above the pool whose heat was so intense even the fallen angel was attempting to get even a fraction of an inch away from it. The face attached to the horned head shifted, revealing a visage not nearly as beautiful as the original. Eyes filled with fear, the angel gave his captor a pleading look.

“I _am_ God. You cannot fool me as easily as you have fooled others. Goodbye, Belial.” There was a rush of supplicating words but she did not bother letting the angel finish. With a flick of her wrist, the lava splashed like a pond accepting a thrown stone. The room was silent, save for the angel’s attempts to surface. “I am very disappointed. But as I said before… I forgive you all. Come, Michael, it seems our Prince of Darkness is elsewhere.”

The fallen angels didn’t move, stunned by the display, as Michael used his long strides to catch up with the deity. They fell in step as they marched down a long hallway at the back of the throne room. “You don’t think Lucifer will be upset you tossed one of his brothers into oblivion?”

“Lucifer doesn’t know that someone has been stealing his face, I imagine.” Michael stopped suddenly, grabbing her elbow. He didn’t need to speak, her answer was already on her tongue. “Yes, Michael, you’re still the Antichrist, you’re still Lucifer’s son. It’s just that someone else has been pulling your strings.”

The hallways emptied out into a vestibule which overlooked a space that should have been impossible in the bowels of Hell. There were rolling green hills, far off blue mountains, flowers, trees, a violet sky with soft blue clouds. It took some time but they eventually found their objective under a great tree whose golden fruits did not stay one shape for very long. Possibly the most beautiful man in all of history opened his eyes from where he laid among the tree’s roots for an impromptu nap. “To whom do I owe this visit?”

“As you are probably not aware, this is your son, Michael,” Aneirin calmly gestured towards her companion.

Lucifer got to his feet gracefully, his eyes giving Michael a thorough look-over. He turned his attention to the woman in white. “And you are the Son.”

“I was. Now-”

“Our Father and Holy Ghost are gone, are they?” Aneirin didn’t have time to respond. “There was no way that they would allow their precious Son to wander down here.”

“That is very true. I plead on numerous occasions for your clemency.” Much like the throne room, Michael stood aside, though this time he felt as if he had nothing to offer in a conversation between immortals. “I suppose he grew tired of my views on his actions.”

“So as He cast us wretched angels out for our disobedience, Our Father has abandoned you for yours.” Lucifer ghosted his fingers just far enough away from the ring of light as to not be injured. “What are you proposing?”

“Father abandoned this place because he failed to make it perfect. I believe we can embrace its imperfections and we will all be better for it.” The surrounding sounds fell away as her voice held a tone of intense finality, “Humanity will remember what it was like to live both in fear and grace. It is time we take a bit more of a direct approach to some new rules, wouldn’t you say?”

The angel withdrew his hand and steepled his fingers under his nose in consideration. He began to pace around the tree. “You are implying fire and brimstone, a return to the days when Earth was just but a prototype… Yet you come offering halos to fallen angels.”

“There is nothing you have done that I cannot forgive, given the circumstances. There are, however, real evils in the world that I cannot forgive.” Aneirin closed and then opened one hand, a ring of gold coming into existence as she did. “Our Father abandoned humanity a long time ago and now they believe their only consequence is Hell. Out of sight, out of mind.”

“You intend to-”

“Bring a taste of Hell to them.” The new God extended the halo to the fallen angel. “Who better to help me than you?”

Lucifer stared at the ring of gold, mind switching between thoughts of glory and betrayal. He took the halo into his hand. “You are not Our Father.”

“We are all in this together.”

While the new Lord of Heaven was handing out halos to the fallen angels, restoring their faith and accepting their thanks, Lucifer and Michael stood to one side near the lava pool. “I apologize. Belial always lived up to his title.”

“What are you apologizing for, Father?” People had always said he was devilishly handsome, now he had proof that it was true.

“If I had been in charge of your fate, and not the Lord of Lies, your life might have been… quite different.”

“Does this have something to do with the garden?” Michael bit his tongue, fearing he was talking back to a being more powerful than himself by far. He never thought he would see Lucifer with a halo of gold.

“I had grown tired of my anger, I admit. The only reason I would have brought upon the end of days… I would have been free of this neverending war over human souls.” He gestured toward the lava pool. “Belial had… other opinions and he has obviously paid for them.”

“I hate to break up this family reunion,” Aneirin chimed in, “but I think it is time that these mortal bodies return to their mortal coils.”

“It is fine. New rules mean it will not be such an arduous journey to see one another again.” Lucifer placed his hand firmly on Michael’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “I may not be entirely proud of everything, my son, but I am proud of how far you have come.”

Michael’s chest was filled with light and happiness as they left the black marble cathedral and stepped back into the real Earth.

“Heavenly Father, protect us!”

Michael found himself on the dais of the church at the end of the avenue. A quick look around was enough to determine that, despite the lack of desecration, it was indeed the same one. At the bottom of the steps was a group of priests of various importance, all rather shocked and startled. From beside him, Aneirin spoke, “I’m afraid that is not possible.”

“The Devil cannot stand in the house of Almighty God!” bellowed a rather old but fiery bishop. Aneirin took a step forward and they collectively took a wary step back, stumbling on the stairs.

“I assure you, I am no Devil. This” she opened her hands to indicate the building around them “is my home. I thank you for taking such great care of it.”

“Are you implying that _you_ , a _woman_ , are Our Heavenly Father?” There was some snickering among them, displacing their fear just a little.

“I was once the Son, now I am God, and I have found you,” she paused as she raised her hand, the fingers positioned as if there was a blade in her delicate grip, “unforgivable.”

Michael gasped softly in surprise at the sharp snap of her arm in one sideways stroke. The cry that was raised came only from one mouth, that of a young priest who had stood at the bottom of the stairs and was now cowering as he watched his superiors claw at their severed throats. Blood red as rubies stained their vestments and turned the dais into a waterfall that pooled on the rich rugs. The Lamb kicked the corpses out of her way as she approached the one she’d left alive. “Please, forgive me, spare me, please, I beg of you-“

“Rest easy, young man. You have not done anything I cannot forgive.” Her back was turned to him, but Michael knew from the relief on the young priest’s face that Aneirin’s face was soft and welcoming. “I am sorry you had to see this, but every judgment needs a witness.”

“What… What did they do?”

“Disgusting, unforgivable things.” She took his face into her hands and placed a kiss on his brow.

As she whispered the secrets of the new heavenly order, Michael inspected the bodies of the fallen clergymen. Each throat was opened with one clean even cut and while their deaths had been relatively quick, he knew that they had not been pleasant. With a fluid motion of his hand, he rolled one of the corpses onto their back. On his white robes was a list of sins: _rapist, pedophile, unrepentant._ The other men’s robes were much the same. 

“Come, Michael. I’ve grown tired of today.” They left the young priest, pale and rocking himself in a pew, and headed out into the open air. The snow was falling down properly again and there was the bustle of life as people and vehicles went past.

In a daze, they made their way through the city streets and once again they were standing in his apartment. “What happens now?”

“Rome wasn’t built and destroyed in a day,” she replied as she peeled off layers of clothing, finding a shirt of his in a drawer to wear. Before she crawled into his bed she removed her halo, the glow dimming to leave just a flattened ring of gold that didn’t cause his dresser to explode when she laid it down.

Michael opened his mouth in disbelief and shut it when he realized that the answer to his question would just be something cryptic. He had the feeling that there was some reason for everything and he might as well get it over with. She did just re-sanctify a group of angels and then bleed dry sinful priests. This was no longer the pathetic creature he’d used to stroke his ego.

So Michael laid himself down beside her and immediately became a human pillow. There wasn’t much he could do about it. “Why does a god need to sleep?”

“I like dreaming,” she replied sleepily.

Michael woke up in his bed, but it wasn’t the bed he’d fallen asleep in; all around him, pulled out of some distant memory, was his childhood room. There was an insistent knock on the door and the voice of Grandma Constance followed it, “You better get ready, your friend will be here soon.”

Friend? What _friend?_ He didn’t have friends. Whoever it was would have to wait.

Looking around, Michael realized that his room was not exactly as it was the last time he’d seen it. There was a desk with a computer, a pile of textbooks and notebooks scattered haphazardly. There were shelves filled with books, jewel cases, mementos of a life he didn’t remember living. Posters of movies and bands he never had time to learn about when he was busy bringing about the end of the world. Dirty clothes were lazily thrown into a laundry basket, some not even close. There was a small collection of water glasses on his bedside table, all in various stages of empty. “And bring your dishes out!”

A clock on the wall read 9:32 and since the sun was shining through his window he could assume it was the morning. Michael slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed and cautiously placed his bare feet on the carpet, expecting it to change in some way when he did so. Turning the tap of his bathroom sink was a test of nerves, debating what thing other than water was going to come out. It was definitely his face in the mirror and no amount of squinting or prodding the cold surface made the image of a young handsome face framed by golden curls change into something else. The water felt warm in his mouth and curiosity compelled him to fish a thermometer out of the medicine cabinet. It beeped with a green light. Normal.

The scene outside his window was sunny and the leaves were beginning to turn orange and red. If he was ‘normal’ then he would have to dress for cold weather, something he habitually did but not out of necessity. Dressed but still confused, he hesitantly put his hand on the doorknob. He fully expected to open the door to his room and see that the rest of the house was something out of a nightmare.

It was, in fact, a perfectly normal hallway. There were more pictures on the walls than he remembered, mostly because they involved him in stages of life he skipped over the first times around. All happy smiles. One pulled at his heart; there he was, just a little boy, opening Christmas presents with Ms. Mead. He thought he could hear her say “If you help me clean up, I’ll make you a special treat,” but he knew it had to be an echo of the past. Michael quickly gathered up the glasses from his nightstand; if this was somehow a real life, then he didn’t want to disappoint his grandmother.

“You’re going to need a coat, Michael,” Billie Dean remarked from her perch at the kitchen table. She was doing one of her card readings for Constance, but his arrival proved to be quite the distraction for both women. The last time he’d seen the medium she had screeched at the sight of him and refused to come to the Langdon home until he was gone. Now she smiled at him as if she was his friendly aunt.

“Let the dog in when you’re done with that,” his grandmother gestured her cigarette at the back door of the kitchen. Michael emptied the glasses into the sink and gingerly placed them in the dishwasher, following the pattern of what was already in it.

He wiped his hands on his jeans and went into the backyard. Billie Dean was right, he would need a jacket. Michael had a moment to notice the distinct lack of rose bushes in the backyard, save for a few that fit into the carefully planned flowerbeds, before 65 pounds of Irish Red Setter ran into him at full speed.

 _Okay,_ Michael thought while he was on the ground being happily licked in greeting, _maybe this life won’t be so bad._

“Great, now your shirt is dirty,” Constance said from the door.

“I don’t mind, Mrs. Langdon.” The dog got off of his owner and wagged his tail all the way to the new guest. Michael didn’t move, in shock from the voice he heard. “Besides, we’re going for a hike, just gonna get dirty anyway.”

“Well, you still need a jacket,” his grandmother replied to the girl in the kitchen. She moved aside, allowing Aneirin to stand in the doorway with a pale jean jacket in her hands.

“Come on, Michael. We don’t want to get stuck up the mountain in the dark.”

The drive was full of her playing music and singing along, him watching their surroundings as he tried to piece together what was happening, what was different from the last time he was there. She had asked him what was wrong, but his noncommittal answer seemed enough for her to leave him to his devices. She had packed them lunch and a camera swung on a strap around her neck. Occasionally she stopped him to take pictures of the leaves, the view, something small like a lone flower peeking up from fallen leaves or some mushrooms growing on a tree. They talked about music, school, movies, everything, but he wasn’t talking nearly as much as her. Michael was standing on an overlook, eyes washing over the town below when the snap of the aperture brought him back. Aneirin lowered the camera, a pretty smile on her face. “Where are you today, Michael?”

“I just… am having a hard time believing I’m here.”

When they continued on the trail, her hand slipped into his and he couldn’t find a reason to not wrap his fingers around hers. “I get that way sometimes. But I’m here for you when you need me.”

There was a nice spot off the trail where they sat down on some rocks to eat their late lunch. They got back to Constance’s house just in time to have dinner and after helping clean up they laid in the backyard on a blanket to look up at the stars. “This is why I like dreaming. You have a chance to feel normal.”

Michael stared at her, confusion drawing in his brows and widening his eyes. As if nothing she’d said was upsetting, Aneirin rolled onto her side to rest her head on his chest, throwing a leg over one of his and draping her arm over his waist. “You’re the only one who can understand me.”

He didn’t wake up in the bedroom with the desk and his clothes tossed into a corner. The space beside him on the bed was only faintly warm and the spare pillow smelled like him but just not quite. His ears finally told him that the shower was running and over the sound, he could hear music. _Pathetic humans in despair-_

So it wasn’t another life, but a dream. Michael found the shirt she had taken hanging on a closet handle, wrinkled.

_A fallen angel in his lair-_

The halo was still sitting on the dresser, flat gold like the rings of Saturn.

_Old One_

Michael stared at it, tried to see how close his fingers could get before they were burned.

_Master_

“That one’s yours,” Aneirin cooed from the bathroom doorway, standing bare and leaning against the frame, her own bright crown in place, “if you want it.”

“And what does it mean to have my own halo?” The deity strode over to him and took the ring with just the slightest touch of her fingertips.

“Undying power. No more bathing in blood. I’m sure it’s fun, but it’s quite the turnoff.” Michael gave it some thought before he went to kneel. She stopped him with a finger under his chin. “This isn’t a collar. It is a gift.”

He returned to his full height and anxiously took the angelic crown from her as if it was a newborn baby. When it didn’t fight his presence, he placed it in line with the crown of his head and found that it was attracted to the spot like a magnet. Somehow wiggling his fingers was the first test of his new strength that came to mind. It elicited a soft chuckle from her. “You’ll get used to it. I’m still figuring out some of the more fun stuff.”

Apparently one of the ‘more fun stuff’ was making new outfits for them both. Michael had to admit that for a person who was last alive during the robe era of fashion, she had taste. When he was ready, she stood by the front double doors. “Did you have a nice dream?”

Michael noticed something on his dresser. A photograph. He’d never seen himself smile before, at least in the purely happy sense. “I did.”

She grinned broadly. “See? Being evil isn’t the only way to enjoy life.”

She fixed his cravat just a smidge and put a stray curl back in its place. As she turned, the doors swung open and they stepped into a conference room, its waiting occupants the angels of Hell.

“Let’s get this shit started, shall we?”


End file.
